Ashes, Ashes, We all Fall Down
by Dr. SecretAgentMan
Summary: When a woman is found murdered in a shack outside London, Sherlock is called on the case. But there is something different about this corpse, something Sherlock is unwilling to let anyone see. Rated T only cuz I'm super consious!


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock or any characters associated with it.

**Warning:** Sorta, vivid-ish description of a dead person. You have been _warned_.

This will most likely be a one-shot.

Seriously. I don't think I'll continue it.

Anyway hope you enjoy my plot-bunny of doom, and we all know Dr. Secret Agent Man writes nothing but depressing stories so get ready for a storm of Worried!Sherlock, Clueless!John, and Angsty!Lestrade.

XXXXXXX

"Don't let Lestrade in."

John starts, almost jumping at the clear baritone of his flatmate. The past half-hour have been spent, cold and miserable in an abandoned shack an hour past the edge of London, watching the man deduce the corpse of a woman before him. The break of silence was surprising to say the least, but the words were really what stunned the doctor.

In all his years of working with the Detective, watching in astonished glee as his tall, wafer of a friend solved crime after crime, murder after murder, he had never seen Sherlock come between Lestrade and his job. The two were the same in that way; both lived for the thrill of the chase, not that the Inspector would admit it of course. Nothing, not even Sherlock himself, could keep Lestrade from doing the work he loved so much. The man practically lived at his office, elbow deep in coffee and paperwork and chocolate glazed donuts. The very thought that Sherlock would risk the only officer who could deal with him on a daily basis was more than absurd. Not to mention, John himself has seen the veiled respect Sherlock harbors for Lestrade. The Inspector was, as far as John knew, important to Sherlock, and in doing _this_, Sherlock would surely lose whatever trust was there.

The bloody genius was smarter than that, even with his primitive-at-best social skills, but John could detect no humor to his tone. Sherlock's cool grey eyes were scrunched in an almost off-putting way, as they scrutinized every inch of the woman's remains. Hands to the floor, the detective paws his way around the sagging flesh, scanning for clues invisible to all but him.

Twice now he has circled the ghastly scene, and twice now, he has seen what John could have sworn was worry cloud the man's brow. Sherlock has never taken this long, not without punctuating the air with some odd non-sequitur, but the silence that rules the room is all-telling. Sherlock is hesitant to voice his deductions, and that in itself scares John more than he could ever admit.

His quiet hesitance doesn't stop him from being a cryptic ass, however, and Donovan's immediate protests are cut off by the frantic –since when is Sherlock frantic?- voice of the detective and a sharp, spindly finger shoved in her face.

"Stop him now. _Go_. Even you with your meager powers of observation should be able to recognize -"

"Recognize what?"

The air stills and all eyes turn to the graying Inspector, who has only now made his presence known. Rain clings to his coat and sloushes about his ankles, but a blue, sanitary bodysuit has been thrown over the worst of it. There was no doubt that the weather (and most likely the traffic) was what had kept him this long. John has barely a second to take in the Inspector's appearance however-a second that he grudgingly realizes doesn't even include a proper greeting-, before Sherlock is stiffening over the body, shielding it from everyone's view.

Now, contrary to Sherlock's usual claims, Lestrade isn't dumb enough, of course, to not notice the rotting pile of flesh in the corner, and has shown himself to be beyond observant when it comes to Sherlock. The small shift in the detective's movements are coupled with Lestrade's eyebrows climbing high on his forehead, but to his credit, he only sends one concerned glance at John before continuing on with his investigation.

"Are you going to let me see it?" Lestrade says, with an air of authority that screams experienced detective and somehow exasperated parent at the same time.

They all wait as the question hangs in the air for a second, settling heavily on Sherlock's shoulders, before John hears him emit a soft sign. Sherlock swings his curly head to lock eyes with his blogger, and John, who has been so focused on watching Sherlock watch Lestrade watch Sherlock, blinks at the sudden attention.

"Catch him."

"What do you-"

"Just catch him."

And he stands easily, fluidly, and for some odd reason steps towards them, as he releases the body for everyone's viewing. For the first time, John sees her in full detail; how the cold had preserved her soft rose-petal lips and her empty gray eyes. Pristine blond curls ornate the cracked flooring, each tendril stained a rust-red from the dried remains of her blood. Even with the side of her head a violent bloody mess, there is something almost dainty about her, like a porcelain doll of the finest quality.

He is so blindsided by her beauty that in that moment all he can do is blink. The next he is no longer reeling in the sun, but being forced to watch his friend fade in the dark.

Lestrade has gone three shades paler in the course of a second. Eyes wide and pupils blown, he has staggered back at least three steps to the wall, mouth moving endlessly but without meaning. His breath is punctuated by rapid gasps, each quicker and sharper than the last. Tremors run through his body, accentuating the distressed breathing that almost instantly tells John to 'stop gaping and move' just as the older man's legs give out. Only John's battle-born instincts allow him the awareness to catch the man as he turns an abrupt-face, his fingers just barely clasping onto Lestrade as he tries and fails to stop the decent. They fall to an ungraceful heap on the floor, but the action was deliberate, slow, with a majority of the gray-haired man's body weight resting on his doctor's chest.

John himself has landed in an awkward kneeling position, but he has no view of the hysterical man in his arms, only the shifting tuft of hair flattened against his jumper. He's still confused, beyond that actually, but at the moment, that takes no precedence. With an assurance he doesn't feel, he slides his hands up to Lestrade's quivering shoulders. Coaxing words slowly fill the air, as John tries to calm the frantic friend in his arms.

"Breathe._ Breathe. _You're alright Greg._ You're alright."_

Sherlock has fixed himself at a constant anchor at Lestrade's side –he anticipated this; the bastard- and is in almost the same position as John, hands gracing over the Inspector but never touching, as if he were afraid of the effect his contact may have. Hesitant is not Sherlock however, and the moment is gone within seconds, as he jerks his head back to yell at Donovan, who is halfway through a frantic phone call with what John guesses to be the emergency services.

"Cover her up, and for God's sake, Donovan! Put down the phone!" Sherlock all but screams with a pointed look at the decayed mess of woman in his sight.

She does so immediately, much to John's veiled surprise, as he half-listens to Sherlock tell Donovan to clear everybody out and call for a cab. She runs out the door screaming some bs about Sherlock deciding to blow up something or another, just as Lestrades mummerings begin to quiet down. John knows better than to hope though, and wraps the man tighter to his chest.

Shock is settling in, and John can feel the Inspector's temperature drop through his jumper. He's seconds away from ripping it off too, if just to throw around Lestrade's ailing form, when someone else does it for him. It isn't his jumper he's using though, as Sherlock kneels next to them in a button down dress shirt, gentle hands wrapping his own belstaff around Lestrade's shoulders. Their eyes meet briefly, in which John sends him the most scathing yet confused look he could muster, before Sherlock drapes his hand behind Lestrade's back, locking it beneath his armpit.

"The cab should be here. If we wish to get back to 221B before nightfall, then I suggest we get in it within the next half hour."

John nods quietly, and they both rise with Lestrade in tow. It is an awkward position for all of them, with Lestrade's face still buried in John's chest, but somehow they manage it. Lestrade drags like a dead weight, arms limp and feet barely moving, and both John and Sherlock have to struggle to keep the Inspector from slipping into the mud-coated boards beneath their feet.

That doesn't begin to compare to the effort facing them outside. A monsoon greeted them at the doorway, along with a worried-looking Donovan, who graced them with an umbrella and a jerk of the head towards a mud-speckled cab. Their walk is labored as they try to be both hasty and careful, wanting nothing more than to get Lestrade home and safe, but not willing to risk a fall in the cold and dark weather. When they do finally make it, Lestrade's voice is almost nonexistent against the torrent raging around them, and John has no qualms about depositing him in the warm, heated cab, his hand still rubbing Greg's arm slowly.

John does stay out for a bit even as his hair and jumper become damp with rain, voice lowered as he assured Donovan that he will take care of Lestrade and keep her updated on his condition. The officer looks beyond hesitant to disappear, something about leaving her boss with a known sociopath and his 'friend', but she eventually leaves with a worried glance and a nod. John watches her walk off to where the other members of Lestrade's crew must have hidden out and begins barking orders, her eyes flashing with worry and the wrath of kings.

Donovan was never the worst part though, and John has to will himself not to start screaming at his flatmate, who has taken over hold of the umbrella. His hands, calloused from years and war clench slowly, as, for not the last time, he waits for their eyes to meet. He needs to know what happened. There will be no other way to quench his worry and beyond that, solve his friend's problem.

Cold icy blue meets him when they do finally cross each other's gaze, and it takes a second of curling white snakes of breath, visible against the frigid winter air, for either to say a word. Surprisingly, Sherlock's the one to make the first move, huffing quietly before turning his stare sideways, almost mourningly, to the bright yellow police tape that has cautioned off the scene.

"She was his wife." He deadpans quietly to the onslaught, eyes locked on the greasy old shack that lay before them, and more importantly, the remains huddled inside.

A quiet breath is drawn before he continues, in a whisper that barely carries over the barreling winds.

"And there is not a person here who does not mourn her loss."

John stiffens.

Rare were the moments that he heard his flatmate speak fondly, at least if the words were addressing another person, but pain is clearly etched into the words, respect and care and something beyond that churning the sentence into a heart-wrenching mixture. Sherlock liked this woman; dare he say, _loved_ this woman, and had clearly mourned her loss.

Lestrade's wife, whoever she was, must have been something to have held the respect of Sherlock Holmes.

So he swallows down his instincts and lets Sherlock brush past him, and watches him escape into the warmth of the cab. He doesn't say a word, not a comfort or a statement or even a soft huff, just clambers in afterwards, the two men making a sandwich around a shaking Lestrade, who has pressed his face into Sherlock's neck with all the dignity of a child. Tear tracks still glisten on his cheeks, and John pretends not to see his curly-haired flatmate glide his thumb along the trails, smudging the edges with a caring like John has never seen. It is with this same tact that he pretends not to hear the soft 'you caught him' that sounds suspiciously like a 'thank you' when Lestrade has finally nodded off, the detective's gaze never leaving the graying man nestled into him.

They ride home thinking of rose-petal lips and an empty abyss of gray.

XXXXXXX

So I have successfully killed off two of Lestrade's family…. Who to off next? …..Gawd. I'm not going to the good place, am I?

I am honestly an awful person for writing this, and even though I know Greg's ex is still alive, this was a plot bunny that just would not go away. I doubt it will be continued, but every now and then I may pull some characters (the wife and Danny) to throw into random other Sherlock fics.

Also this wife is not the wife in Can I Count the Ways. I like this version of Lestrade's wife better, even if she is dead….

Hope you weren't majorly depressed, and please R&R! It helps oh so very much!


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